


wolf light

by story_monger



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22109221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: Snufkin must come to terms with what Moomin means to him
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 157





	wolf light

Snufkin reaches the obsidian beaches of the Southern Coast on his ninth week of travel. For nearly a half hour he stands atop the swell of the hill and stares at the black coastline snaking away in either direction, limned on one side by verdant forest and on the other by wine-dark sea frosted with foam. His throat aches with the loveliness of it. 

Snufkin lingers along the coast for a full week, gathering supper from the little tide pools and inlets and falling asleep under the stars to the constant thrum of waves. His clothes become stiff with salt and reeking of brine, and he collects a new small galaxy of freckles across his peeling nose. He does not meet a soul for the entire time that he wanders the black beaches, only the high cries of gulls and other seabirds, the occasional spout of passing whales, and a few animals wandering from the forest.

It’s the perfect place for Snufkin to get lost in his own thoughts. It can’t happen in Moominvalley, not really, not in such a busy place. And even in the winter, Snufkin comes across enough people and has enough rainy, cold, supperless nights to keep his thoughts attached to the practical matters of the world around him. But here, among warm beaches and plentiful food and blissful isolation, Snufkin practically dreams his way through the days, lost in the braided streams of his own mind. It is important work; it’s at times like this that he comes to know himself.

Which doesn’t mean he understands all his own nooks and crannies. He can’t explain the veil of melancholy that sometimes grasps him like a grappling vine. He still is mystified by the way that too many people in too short a time makes his ribcage constrict. And, more recently, he can’t figure out the little knot of aching that lives in the center of his chest, just beneath his sternum. It appeared just a few years ago and has been perplexing him since. He fiddles with it sometimes, like it’s one of the wooden puzzle boxes that Moominpapa collects. He has a sense of it by now; he knows its shape and its weight; he recognizes it. But if he tried to describe it with words besides ‘heavy’ and ‘buried’, he would be lost. He mostly just lives with it, the same way he lives with flooded tents and sore feet and the constant afterimage of sadness. He’s found it’s better to learn to accommodate these kinds of things than struggle with them too much.

* * *

Snufkin arrives late to Moominvalley. The trees along the stream are already in flower, and the air has no chill trace of cold left. Snufkin is slow along the path, guilt collecting around him in a faint shroud. He had been a bit foolhardy in traveling all the way to the Southern Coast so late in the winter.

He reaches the bridge to the Moominhouse in mid-afternoon and pauses, tilting back the brim of his hat to take in the familiar pale blue tower surrounded by riots of flowers. The window to Moominpapa’s study is open, the curtains flashing in and out of sight. Movement in the kitchen window hints at Moominmama’s presence. There is no sign of Little My, though undoubtedly she is somewhere being a nuisance. And there, on the porch, is a familiar round figure bent over something on the table. Snufkin watches Moomintroll’s tail flick with concentration, his snout wrinkling every few seconds. Snufkin lingers on the far side of the bridge and listens to the stream murmur below him, smells the heady fragrance of the flowering trees, sinks into the comforting ache of his feet, and comes to realize how every part of him feels soaked with brightness, like someone has cracked open a sun over his head.

At that moment, Moomin glances up. Snufkin breaks into a smile, and Moomin lets out a loud squeak that, Snufkin thinks, is meant to be his name. Moomin scrambles over the porch railing while Snufkin crosses the bridge in a jog, and they meet with a little jostling and accidental treading of toes, but neither can mind.

“You’re here!” Moomin is saying, his voice somewhat muffled where his snout is buried in Snufkin’s shoulder. He smells warm and dusty, and he is comfortably, perfectly placed in Snufkin’s arms. The contact sends sparks along Snufkin’s skin, like it always does after a long winter of being solitary. “I was so scared you had been carried off by a great eagle,” Moomin says. “Or kidnapped by pirates or…or fallen in quicksand!”

“My travels are not nearly so exciting,” Snufkin laughs, though the needling guilt abruptly sharpens. He pulls back so he can see Moomin’s face. “I am whole and unharmed, as you can see. I traveled all the way to the Southern Coast this year, and I made poor calculations about my travel time.”

Moomin’s eyes widen comically, endearingly. “The Southern Coast,” he echoes. His demeanor brightens. “I’ve read a little about it, but now you’ve _seen_ it. You have to tell me everything!”

They settle into their usual place in the center of the bridge. Snufkin casts his first line of the season and describes the black beaches, the low-clouded skies, the distant spouts of whales. He doesn’t mention the perfect loneliness. He’s unsure if Moomin would understand that.

“Obsidian beaches,” Moomin says wonderingly. “I’ve never seen obsidian. You didn’t happen to collect any, did you?”

“No,” Snufkin says, startled. He realizes what an ideal little gift it would have made for Moomin, and at the same time, he realizes that the idea never once crossed his mind. He feels horribly thoughtless. Here he is, late in his returning, and he couldn’t even bring back a bit of sand to make up for it.

“Well, I can understand,” Moomin says blithely. “You must travel light. Sand isn’t so important.” It is important. This particular sand is important. But Snufkin doesn’t have time to explain that before Moomin continues. “Did you go anywhere else interesting? I don’t want all the details now, I want to save some stories for later. But give me a hint.”

Snufkun obliges and describes the small towns he passed through, the pine woods, the vast lakes he slept beside. Moomin, in return, describes the small events of the winter from the few times he awoke. He stops somewhat abruptly in the middle of explaining his failed attempt at pancakes.

“And? You burnt them, and then what?” Snufkin prompts when he realizes Moomin has fallen silent.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just burnt them and I threw them out and went back to bed.” Moomin’s ears flick back in quiet annoyance. “I’m never sure why I try to tell you my winter stories. They’re ridiculous compared to yours.”

Snufkin contemplatively watches the minnows dart silver in the water below. “Ridiculous isn’t the word I would use,” he says. “I find them quite interesting.”

“Don’t lie, Snufkin, that’s cruel.”

“I’m not lying,” Snufkin says. “I often wonder about what you are doing during winter.”

Moomin looks mildly startled. “You think about me?” he asks.

“Of course.” Snufkin turns to frown lightly at Moomin. “You’re my best friend. Why wouldn’t I?”

Moomin’s snout gains the faintest flush of peach. “Well, you’re off seeing so many interesting things and meeting new people and thinking novel thoughts. I can’t imagine that a Moomintroll snoring in his bed would be of much interest.”

“You’re not just snoring in your bed, though, are you?” Snufkin says slyly. “You’re also, apparently, burning pancakes and no doubt ruining Moominmama’s nice pans.”

“I clean the pans!” Moomin says indignantly. When he sees Snufkin’s tiny smile, he chuffs and jostles his shoulder against Snufkin’s. “Fine. What else do you want to hear about, then, from my fascinating hibernation that you have been dying to hear all about?”

Snukfin hums and recasts his line before he says, “What did you dream about?”

“Dream?” Moomin sighs and leans back, pulling his shoulder from Snufkin’s in the process. “I’m so bad at remembering my dreams, but let me see what I can recall.”

Moomin mulls over the question while Snufkin relaxes into place beside him. It’s much preferable to have Moomin thoughtful and earnest than embarrassed and sullen.

“Spring,” Moomin finally says. “I dream quite a lot about spring.” He looks down at the stream and gives it a small, shy smile. “I suppose I’m thinking about you, too.”

“Well,” Snufkin says. He is aware of the small, knobbled ache in his chest. It feels different suddenly. “Well,” Snufkin says again. “That’s—“

He is saved by Moominmama’s call from the porch that tea is ready. Moomin scrambles to a stand, tugging at Snufkin’s sleeve and saying something about how he has to tell Moominpapa about the Southern Coast, how he would love to hear about it. Snufkin sets aside his fishing rod and follows easily, his free paw fluttering absently over his chest.

The ache feels cracked somehow.

* * *

Spring progresses in a stream of warm, perfumed days. Snufkin, Moomin, Little My, Snorkmaiden, and Sniff get into their usual trouble and have their usual small adventures. More than that, Snufkin gets plenty of long, quiet days to himself. Or with Moomintroll. In truth, there isn’t a huge difference between being alone and being alone with Moomintroll.

On a bright morning in late April, the two of them have sequestered themselves in a shaded grove made perpetually cool by clustered oaks and beeches, the ground carpeted with tiny purple flowers. Snufkin watches sunlight filter through the green ceiling above them while doodling around on his mouth organ. He can hear a tune hidden somewhere in the scattered notes, and he’s intent on ferreting it out. Beside him, Moomin is armed with one of his mother’s good wooden combs and is doing customary battle with the last of his winter coat. The Moomin family always emerges from their winter sleep with puffed, thick coats that have to be shed and brushed out during early spring. As far as Snufkin can tell, one of Moomin’s favorite hobbies is complaining about the task.

“Another knot!” Moomin gripes, tugging fruitlessly at the fur under his left arm. “How can one troll have so many knots?”

“You do have quite a lot of fur right now,” Snufkin observes.

Moomin huffs, unappeased, and tugs at the knot once more before giving up. “You’re lucky that your fur is so short, Snuf,” he says grimly, tossing aside the comb.

Snufkin is silent for a moment before he says, “I could help if you want.”

Moomin glances over. “You don’t have to,” he says. “It’s boring and infuriating all at once.”

“Just like most things in life, then,” Snufkin says. “Give it over.”

Moomin obliges, and Snufkin scoots to sit at Moomin’s back. He picks a spot on Moomin’s left shoulder and begins to run the comb through the fur there. Bits of white fur come away easily, and Snufkin brushes them off into the wind.

Snufkin falls into silence, and Moomin doesn’t seem intent on breaking it. He gazes over the low hills, his tail twitching every so often when Snufkin snags on a knot. But Snufkin is nothing if not patient, and he finds a kind of meditation in easing out the knots gently enough not to hurt Moomin. Soon, the grass is scattered with white fur glinting in the sunlight like snow or cottonwood seed. It’s quite lovely. Just as lovely is the softness of Moomin’s downy spring fur. Snufkin finds himself letting his paw rest on the warm breadth of Moomin’s back while he works; the contact makes his skin spark and flush. It’s almost uncomfortable.

“Are you all right?”

It’s the first thing either of them have said in nearly an hour, and it makes Snufkin’s hand startle from Moomin like a frightened sparrow.

“Yes,” Snufkin says. He lets out an odd laugh. “Yes, very all right.” A moment of silence, and he blurts, “I’ve been quite alone all winter, that’s all. My skin is still adjusting to others.”

“Hm. I see,” Moomin says, although his tone suggests that he doesn’t entirely. Snufkin returns to his work, hat dipped over his eyes.

When Snufkin is finished, Moomin’s fur is glossy and smooth, and Moomin declares himself deeply indebted. Snufkin waves the debt away and picks back up his mouth organ to continue hunting for his tune. Moomin settles on his back beside him, hands folded comfortably over his belly.

Afternoon unfolds around them, sending a lazy heat into their bones. Snufkin eventually gives up on the tune; he’ll have to catch it another day. Instead, he watches the breeze ruffle Moomin’s newly brushed fur, and his paw flexes thoughtlessly.

Suddenly, Snufkin finds himself stretching out beside Moomin, so close that it takes very little effort to press his face into Moomin’s shoulder. Moomin shifts but doesn’t pull away.

“Is this all right?” Snufkin mutters into his shoulder.

“Of course,” Moomin says. His voice is horrifically gentle. “Why wouldn’t it be all right?”

Snufkin knows the answer, but he can’t quite distill it into words. It’s like a great, shadowy shape beneath the water’s surface; undoubtedly present but hard to identify from one moment to the next. Still, Snufkin can pluck one coherent thought from the muddy waters of his own mind: he wouldn’t do this with anyone but Moomin.

“Oh,” Snufkin breathes into Moomin’s soft fur. “I don’t know. No reason.”

They fall silent. Snufkin listens to the susurrus of wind through the canopy above them and the occasional passing of a honey bee and the steady, easy sound of Moomin’s breathing.

* * *

“Wake up, wake up, Snufkin! There’s a great, slathering tiger outside your tent and I think he’s _hungry_!”

Snufkin jerks awake, blinking into the green, dusty sunlight filtering into his tent. A small, familiar silhouette is projected along the east-facing wall, accompanied by a distinct sound of muffled laughter. Snufkin wrinkles his nose and yawns pointedly before huddling back under his blankets, screwing his eyes shut.

“Don’t you know?” he calls out. “Tigers don’t eat Snufkins. They much prefer little morsels of mymble-children.” The tent front unzips and Little My marches to Snufkin’s face, bending to poke him in the left eye. Snufkin huffs. “I hear the more annoying they are, the tastier the tiger finds them,” he adds.

“I’ll give you that,” Little My says. “You’d taste like fish and tobacco smoke and have the consistency of old leather.”

“All part of my charm. Is there a reason for the visit or am I merely lucky?”

“We’re adventuring to the northern part of the valley today,” Little My informs him. “We’ll probably make an overnight trip of it. If you want to come, we’re leaving in a little under an hour.”

Without waiting for a response, Little My darts from the tent, not bothering to zip the front close behind her. Snufkin peels his eyes open and stares contemplatively at the familiar roof of his tent. Through the open front, he hears the tread of footsteps.

“What, are there more tigers?” Snufkin calls out.

There is a long pause. “I don’t think tigers live around here,” Moomin’s voice finally says.

“They don’t,” Snufkin says, rolling off of his sleeping pad to find Moomin crouched in front of his tent. “I’m sorry, Moomin, I thought you were Little My.”

“I won’t ask further then,” Moomin says. He brightens. “But we’re planning an adventure— “

“To the northern part of the valley,” Snufkin says. “Little My beat you to it.”

“Oh.” Moomin’s ears droop slightly, but he rallies himself a moment later. “Well then? Will you come?”

“I think I will,” Snufkin says, grabbing his boots. “It’s been a few years since I’ve explored that area.”

* * *

Their small troupe makes its way north, armed with canteens of water and bundles of travel food courtesy of Moominmama. It’s a good day for hiking; cool enough to keep comfortable, but still sunny enough to keep the spirits up.

It’s a productive trip for everyone. Little My surprises a little black snake that is nearly as long as she is and scares it away with a fierce growl. Sniff finds a rock with tiny golden flecks that make him very excited. They pass through a series of low, wide meadows rioting with wildflowers that Snorkmaiden collects with painstaking attention. Moomin helps her, sticking a few primroses and coneflowers in Snufkin’s hat in the process.

They make it all the way to the rolling northern hills, and in the evening, they find a clear brook to camp beside. Snufkin catches a few fish to accompany the packed food, and they have a pleasant dinner around the campfire followed up by a round of ghost stories, on Little My’s insistence.

“I _hate_ ghost stories,” Sniff complains for the third time that night, twitching when a nearby owl burbles a few notes.

“Buck up, then!” Little My says. “Snufkin, you’re next.”

Snufkin inhales deep on his pipe. “Who, me?” he asks.

“Don’t act coy,” Little My says, grinning. “You have the best stories out of all of us.”

“That’s true enough,” says Snorkmaiden. “Come on, Snufkin, give us a tale.”

“A _scary_ one,” Little My says.

“But not too scary,” Sniff adds.

Snufkin exhales and considers the scattershot of stars glittering above them. “Scary but not too scary,” he echoes. “Well, I’ll need to think on this, then. Scary. But not _too_ —“

“He already has one picked out,” Little My says to Snorkmaiden. “He just likes being dramatic as possible.”

Snufkin pointedly blows a smoke ring in Little My’s direction.

“Once,” he says, “a sparrow fell in love with a man.”

“That’s silly,” Little My says immediately.

“That’s what the sparrow’s friends told her, I’m sure,” Snufkin replies solemnly. “But every day, this sparrow would perch on the old oak outside the man’s farmhouse and watch him milk the cows and plant his crops and tend to his garden and eat his meal and go to bed, and every day the sparrow fell more and more in love.”

“This doesn’t sound very scary,” Little My says.

“Let him finish,” Moomin chastises her.

“One day,” Snufkin continues. “A peddler came by the tree where the sparrow perched every day. He was a strange fellow, strange enough to talk to birds. He saw the sparrow full of longing and asked her about her troubles. She told him about her love for the man, and upon hearing the story, the peddler grew quiet.

“Finally, he told the sparrow that he had some skills that might help her. And with a few well-placed words, he clapped his hands, and the sparrow tumbled from the tree as a young woman with hair and skin the same color as sparrow-feathers. The peddler placed a word on the sparrow-woman’s tongue and told her that if she spoke it, she’d go back to being a bird. Until then, she was free to try her luck with the man’s love.

“She did so, posing as a wandering farmhand searching for work. The man agreed to hire her for the planting season, and she proved such a good worker that he soon asked her to stay full-time. Close up, the sparrow-woman learned that the man was good-hearted and honest. She became emboldened to love him even more, and soon enough, the man came to love her too. Together, they discovered that they had something strong and true growing between them. They began to live together, and for a long time, they were very happy.

“Then, after many seasons as a human, the sparrow-woman started to catch herself in strange behaviors. She wandered the farmhouse with her hands fluttering around her like aborted wingbeats. She circled the fields for hours at a time, like a trapped thing searching for an exit. She couldn’t sleep anymore. She lay awake beside the man she loved more than anything and felt her skin crawl and her heart pulsing so hard beneath her ribcage that she felt it in her teeth.

“She slowly collapsed, and the man did his best to help her, but he was at a loss of how to do anything besides love her and fret. She stopped eating; everything was sandpaper in her mouth. She began to wander the land around the farmhouse more and more, until she was gone for days at a time, and then weeks. She never remembered where she’d gone or what she’d done there.

“Finally, the sparrow-woman was gone for nearly a month. When she finally returned, she found the man a wreck of worry. Spurred by guilt, she told him the truth. That she was born a sparrow, and that magic kept her in this form. She could only suppose that the magic was not so robust, that it was growing rancid around her. She mentioned the word that the peddler placed on her tongue, the one that should return her to sparrow form. The man exclaimed that she must speak the word, that it would save her from being torn between two natures.

“But the sparrow-woman hesitated. You have to understand, she and the man shared a love that isn’t seen much these days. A deep, rooted love that was like the old oak the sparrow-woman used to perch on. She was loathe to abandon it, as anyone would be. So she told the man that she would try to find a way to cope while staying a human. He was unhappy with the decision, but he agreed to help her.

“They tried so hard, and for so long. But she disappeared more and more often, for longer and longer. Years, sometimes. And one day, when the man was old, but not so old to escape the tragedy of it, the sparrow-woman disappeared completely. In that part of the world, they say you can still glimpse her in the distance, haunting the farmlands. Wandering like a caged thing with her hands fluttering.”

Snufkin falls silent, and the crackling of the fire fills the space where his words had been. Snorkmaiden sniffs loudly.

“Oh, Snufkin, that was worse than scary,” she says. “That was _sad_.” Her brown eyes are very bright.

“Why didn’t the sparrow-woman just say the magic word?” Little My demanded. “Nothing was stopping her but her own foolishness.”

“Foolishness is a strong force,” Snufkin says, shrugging and placing his pipe back in his mouth. “Anyway, don’t give me that look, Little My. It’s a bona fide ghost story, just as you wanted.”

Little My huffs, but doesn’t press the matter, instead turning to Snorkmaiden for her story. While Snorkmaiden thinks, Snufkin finds himself glancing in Moomin’s direction. Moomin has his arms wrapped around his shins, giving the fire a hard, strange expression.

Eventually, they run out of stories, and soon enough everyone drifts off to their tents. Everyone except for Snufkin, who has decided that the night is warm enough and the stars beautiful enough to warrant sleeping outside. He beds down beside the dying fire, smoking his pipe and watching a butter-yellow moon rise over the far hills. His hat is perched on a rock beside him, and every so often, Snufkin glances over at the primroses and coneflowers stuck in the band.

Hours later, Snufkin has almost fallen asleep when a rustling sound alerts him to Moomin crawling out of the tent he is sharing with Sniff. Snufkin watches, eyes half lidded, as Moomin rubs at his arms, looking faintly lost. Snufkin stirs and half lifts himself on one arm.

“Moomin?” he asks in a low voice.

Moomin starts, then comes to sit beside Snufkin. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really,” Snufkin says. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

And neither says anything for a long while after that. They sit together and watch the last of the dying embers ripple with heat while the moon climbs higher and higher, losing its yellow color to instead become as snowy white as Moomin’s fur.

“Where did you hear that story about the sparrow-woman?” Moomin asks, abruptly breaking the silence. Snufkin lifts his head and glances at Moomin before shrugging.

“Somewhere on the road a few years ago,” he says. “I forget where exactly.”

“Oh.” Moomin rubs at his arms again as if he’s cold, although the night is quite warm. “That was a horrible story,” he blurts. “I wish you hadn’t told it.”

There’s more heat in Moomin’s voice than Snufkin is used to. He blinks and sits up more fully. Moomin doesn’t look at him, just stares at the embers with the same hard, strange expression as earlier.

“All right,” Snufkin finally says, at a loss. “I won’t tell it again.”

“Well, too bad, because I’ve already had to hear it,” Moomin snaps. He stands abruptly, mutters something that’s probably meant to resemble ‘good night’, and disappears back into his and Sniff’s tent. Snufkin stares after him, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

* * *

Snufkin treats Moomin warily the next morning, but whatever sour mood had fallen over Moomin seems burnt away along with the morning fog. He helps Snufkin heat up pancakes over the revived campfire, and they’re able to chat as they always do. Snufkin chalks up last night’s behavior to Moomin being overtired from a long day and tries to put the whole thing from his mind.

Their group travels east today, following the hills as they grow toward the Lonely Mountain. They chat easily among themselves, and if Snufkin is a bit overly polite and careful with Moomin, no one seems to notice. Eventually, around midday, they stop to take stock of their journey. Snorkmaiden and Sniff want to be home by dark—and they will need to start making their way south now if they are to do that—while Snufkin is curious to explore more of the Lonely Mountain’s foothills.

“We can certainly split up,” Snufkin says. “I have all my supplies here; I’ll be fine on my own or with anyone who wants to accompany me.”

“Well, Moomin?” says Little My. “We’re the only undecided. What do you want to do?”

Moomin looks oddly embarrassed as he glances sidelong at Snufkin. “If you don’t mind the company,” he says. Snufkin thinks that there might be an apology hidden in his voice. He tilts his head and smiles slightly.

“Not at all.”

“I’ll head back with Snorkmaiden and Sniff,” Little My announces, and grins toothily at Snufkin. “You two have fun.”

Snufkin and Moomin say goodbye to the other three and then, together, continue northeast into the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. They don’t talk for hours, which suits Snufkin fine. He enjoys spending time with the whole group, but with five people, it’s so rarely silent. They don’t speak again until just before twilight, when the shadows are long and they find a small clearing in the woods in which to set up their campsite.

“Oh,” Moomin says. Snufkin glances up to find Moomin staring into his pack.

“Problem?” Snufkin asks.

“Sniff has the tent we were sharing,” Moomin says. “I didn’t even realize.”

“Hm,” Snufkin says with a shrug, returning his attention to making a little ring of rocks for their fire. “No problem. We can both sleep outside tonight, or share my tent if it’s too cold.”

“Right,” Moomin says, setting down his pack. Then, after a moment, he says, “I’m going to collect firewood,” and disappears into the woods.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Snufkin is taking stock of the food they have left when he hears a great crashing sound from the direction where Moomin went. Alarmed, Snufkin straightens in time to see Moomin barreling into the clearing, arms full of firewood, blue eyes wide and his fur standing on end.

“Goodness,” Snufkin says, clambering to a stand. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Moomin says in a high voice before letting the firewood fall from his arms and collapsing into a sit, panting in gusts. “I just, um.” He glanced over his shoulder, ears laid flat against his skull. “I thought I um. Saw something.”

“Saw something,” Snufkin echoes. Moomin stares at him miserably.

“I dunno,” he mutters. “I heard a branch snap.”

“Hm.” Snufkin strides over and peers into the forest behind Moomin. “I don’t see anything,” he says after a moment. “Could have been a deer, or a fox.”

“Could have,” Moomin says, sounding unconvinced.

“Never mind it,” Snufkin says, stooping to gather the dropped firewood. “A good fire will scare off most things.”

Slowly, Moomin pushes himself to a stand and starts to help Snufkin with the firewood. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

“I’m still such a baby,” Moomin says, not quite looking up. “You’re by yourself in the wilderness for months at a time, not even bothered. And here I get spooked by a snapped branch.”

Snufkin is silent for a beat. “I get scared,” he says.

Moomin pauses, glancing over skeptically. “Do you?”

“I do.”

“I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” Snufkin says, laughing lightly. “The wilderness is very vast and lonesome in the winter. You think I haven’t spent a few nights lying awake at night, listening to strange sounds?”

Moomin slowly picks up the last of the firewood and stands there, watching Snufkin closely. “You always come off as so brave and unconcerned,” he says, his tone almost accusatory.

Snufkin shrugs. “Not my fault if that’s how people see me,” he says. He strides toward the stone ring, and Moomin rushes to follow.

“What’s the most scared you’ve been, then?” he asks.

“Not sure,” Snufkin says, setting down the kindling. “I’ll think about it. Help me with this fire, and we’ll see about supper.”

They work shoulder to shoulder, Moomin coaxing the kindling to catch while Snufkin puts together their meal. Snufkin likes them best like this; each absorbed in his own task while still occupying the same space. It’s comforting. Soon, they’re eating heated fish pies and bread rolls beside a cheerfully crackling fire, but Snufkin still sees Moomin’s ears flicking back and forth like he has a fly buzzing around them.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Snufkin asks.

Moomin’s ears turn toward him. “About the time you were most scared?”

“Mm, I don’t think so. I’m still working on that. But a story from my winter.”

“Oh!” Moomin leans forward. “Yes, absolutely.”

So, while they eat, Snufkin describes the town he passed through that was having its winter solstice festival, how the icy streets were strung with so many colored lights that it was like daytime, how the townsfolk drank hot, spiced ciders and ate dark sweetbread and had dances in the central hall. Moomin listens, enraptured, and gradually his ears stopped flicking around so much and his shoulders relax and he asks ten different kinds of questions that Snufkin does his best to answer.

It’s another warm night, so they agree to sleep under the stars. They set up their sleeping mats side by side and talk a little more beside the dying embers. Then they fall silent, having run out of things to talk about, and then they gradually drift off to sleep.

The noises wake Snufkin first. He blinks at the branches above him, groggy and disoriented in a way that tells him he’s been pulled abruptly from deep sleep. Another crack rings through the night air, and Snufkin bolts straight up. His night vision is good, but even that doesn’t show him the source of the sound. He twists around, scanning the woods around them. Nothing. Not even the shining eyes of some forest animal. The next crack comes from very close, almost within throwing distance, and it makes Snufkin’s heart wallop against his ribs, but still he sees nothing.

A light touch on the back of Snufkin’s paw almost causes him to shout, but he glimpses the white fur that almost glows in the darkness. Moomin is curled up under his blanket, staring wide-eyed at Snufkin, his paw extended.

“What should we do?” Moomin breathes, his voice barely audible.

“I’m…not sure.”

A bought of silence passes.

“I think if we run away, we’ll only get lost in the woods,” Moomin finally says, voice oddly steady.

“Hm. Sound thinking.”

Another crack. They become statues, listening, listening. Nothing comes.

“But I also feel very exposed right now,” Moomin barely breathes out.

“Right. So…?”

“I think between us, we can have it set up in a jiffy.”

“I’ll set it up,” Snufkin says. “I can do that with my eyes closed. You watch my back.”

“All right.” Moomin slowly sits up, and his paw squeezes Snufkin’s. “When I say go.”

At Moomin’s word, Snufkin scrambles for his pack and pulls out his tent pieces. Another crack resounds across the campsite while he’s assembling the poles, and this time, Snufkin thinks he can see a flash of movement in his periphery. But there’s no time to dwell on it as he sets the poles in place and hurriedly tosses the canvas over them. He puts in half the stakes to avoid the canvas flying away before he grabs his pack, sleeping mat, and Moomintroll and practically drags them into the tent. Their combined breathing fills the tent as Snufkin zips the front shut, but the pair of them fall silent the next moment, straining to listen. Nothing comes to them but the night breeze through leaves and the chirrups of crickets.

“Oh,” Snufkin suddenly breathes.

“What?”

“I left my hat out there.”

A beat of silence. Then, Moomin abruptly snorts. Snufkin looks at him askance, and Moomin is bent over slightly, hands clapped over his snout. They meet each other’s gaze. Snukfin lets out a surprised giggle, and then Moomin is giggling, and they’re completely lost.

“I-I’m sorry,” Moomin laughs. “You-you looked so _put out_.”

“I’ve had that hat for years!” Snufkin protests.

“Oh, I know,” Moomin says. “It’s basically part of you at this point. Should I go rescue it for you?”

“And let my best friend get eaten by a terrible creature? I have my priorities, Moomintroll.”

That, for no discernable reason, sends them into another round of helpless laughter.

“We-we need to stop,” Snufkin wheezes. “We need to hear if it’s getting closer.”

“Wouldn’t that be typical,” Moomin says, wiping at his eyes, “if we spend our last moments laughing like a pair of loons, right before a bear comes and eats us.”

“Bears don’t live around here,” Snufkin says, shoulders still jumping. “Although Little My mentioned tigers the other day.”

“Oh stars,” Moomin says, straightening. His voice has become suddenly serious. “Imagine if it’s Little My having her fun with us.”

Snufkin wrinkles his nose. “She wouldn’t—” he starts, then has to cut himself off.

“She seemed to be waiting for me to make my decision before announcing she’d go with Snorkmaiden and Sniff,” Moomin says, almost wonderingly. “What if she—“

“What, trailed us all afternoon? Skulked around in the woods by herself waiting to scare us with snapping branches? That would be ridicul—” Again, he has to cut himself off.

They stare at one another in silence for a long moment. Without taking his eyes off of Snufkin, Moomin shouts, “Little My, we know it’s you!”

Snufkin jerks forward as if to clap his paw over Moomin’s mouth, but Moomin extends a placating paw toward him. Neither move, waiting for the sound of delighted cackling or the terrible roar of a hungry beast. Whichever comes first. All they get is more crickets.

“Mm,” Moomin says, dropping his paw and looking wary again. “I thought that would be her cue to come gloat.”

“Maybe she’s savoring it,” Snufkin says uncertainly.

Another beat of silence passes. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” Moomin says, wrinkling his snout. “We’re going to be exhausted tomorrow.”

“Well, we can still sleep. Maybe we take it in turns, let the other person keep watch.”

Moomin nods. “Good idea. I’ll take the first watch, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling jumpy as anything.”

Snufkin isn’t necessarily feeling cool and collected himself, but he agrees. He crawls into his sleeping mat and tucks the blankets around his face. Moomin, meanwhile, fetches Snufkin’s little pocket knife and places it on the ground beside him. Then he settles in, back straight and ears pricked forward, his tail twitching every so often. Snufkin gazes up at him. From this angle, Moomin cuts something of a striking figure.

Snufkin falls asleep more readily than he expected. Perhaps Moomin’s presence helps. He can’t say for sure.

* * *

A few hours later, Snufkin takes the watch through morning, though the woods outside remain quiet. Moomin snores beside him, body curled up into a round, white loaf, his back pressed to Snufkin’s thigh. Snufkin watches him out of a lack of anything else to do. Moomin’s tail and ears are still now; only his side rises and falls in gentle rhythm. Snufkin resists for a long while. He really does. But eventually his paw drifts over to rest on Moomin’s side. His skin doesn’t spark as much anymore; he’s gotten used to people again. But it’s still a great comfort, sitting in the dark tent, listening for an intruder, feeling his friend’s breath rise and fall against him.

The old ache in his chest is still.

* * *

The next morning, they emerge from the tent to find the woods around them still, save for the busy chirruping of birds. Slowly, because there’s not much else to do, they set about breaking both their fast and camp.

“Little My!” Moomin tries at one point, his voice echoing against the trees. “Little My, are you there?”

“Either she’s not there at all or she’s not going to answer,” Snufkin says, bundling up his bedroll.

“I’m still hoping it was just her being annoying,” Moomin sighs. “The alternative is more troubling.”

“In any case, we survived it,” Snufkin points out, strapping his bedroll to his pack. He chucks at the brim of his hat. “Even this old thing. Not a scratch on it.”

“True enough,” Moomin says, looking lighter. “Well! It will make for a good story when we get home.”

They begin to wander back south, though not too quickly and on a zig-zagging path that leads them along the coast’s cliffs. Snufkin watches Moomin tilt his snout toward the incoming sea breeze, inhaling in great, deep gusts. He is beautiful. Snufkin’s throat aches with the loveliness of it. 

“I’ve thought of it,” Snufkin says abruptly.

“Thought of what?” Moomin asks, startled.

“The most scared I’ve ever been,” Snufkin says. He stops without knowing why and watches the sunlight spark off the impossible snowy white of Moomin’s fur. Moomin slows to a stop as well. “Would you like to hear it?” Snufkin asks.

“I suppose I would.”

Snufkin hikes his pack higher on his shoulders and begins walking again. Moomin hurries after him.

“It was almost ten winters ago,” Snufkin says. “When we were much younger. Still children, I’d say.”

Moomin looks at him sideways. “I still think about that sometimes, you know?” Snufkin glances over with eyebrows raised. “That you were traveling by yourself at such a young age,” Moomin clarifies.

There are unasked questions buried there; Snufkin can hear them. Why didn’t your parents stop you? Was there anyone to warn you about the dangers? Is your own safety so unimportant to you? No, Snufkin could have answered. There weren’t any parents, not really, none paying attention; and his safety wasn’t unimportant. But his need to be…away. Out. Fully with himself. That was more important.

Snufkin tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes and lets the comment pass unacknowledged. “I was in a village near the great river,” he says. “They sell sweet white bread there that I—I used to always like.” They clamber over a small outcrop and continue along the path. Snufkin pulls slightly ahead. “After I got my bread, I went into the pub because…oh, I don’t know. Because I had never been inside a pub before and I was curious. I played a few songs on my mouth organ and the people there were charmed and gave me a bit of coin. And there was a youth there. Older than me. A very friendly, handsome youth, and he plied me with ales and I drank those because…because I had never drunk ales before and I had never had a friendly, handsome youth quite…look at me like that. And then we were leaving and it had gotten dark and. Then we were in a house. I hadn’t remembered going there. You know me, I don’t tend to like being in houses. And then his hands. There were hands. I couldn’t find my pack. And I wanted to leave, and I asked to leave and he. Didn’t want me to. Didn’t let me. I couldn’t.” Snufkin stops and picks his way over the path cobbled with small boulders. “I think I bit him,” he says. “Not sure, but I can imagine myself biting him.”

Moomin is silent behind him. Snufkin looks out over the cliff at the sea. Not wine-dark like along the obsidian coast in winter. A brighter, summer blue. The salt and brine still bite his nostrils with a pleasant sting.

“That sounds…” Moomin trails off.

“Not exactly terrible beasts chasing me through the woods, I know,” Snufkin says. “Not nearly as exciting.”

“It’s a little worse, isn’t it?”

Snufkin turns his head over his shoulder, though not enough to see Moomin properly. He’s reduced to a white smudge in his periphery.

“I suppose. Sometimes. People are the worst thing of all,” Moomin says. He inhales hard and says, “Am I like that?”

Snufkin stops. He turns to face Moomin, but even then, he’s not looking at him properly. His eyes skip to the pale indigo wildflowers fluttering raggedly at Moomin’s feet. How can little flowers withstand such a constant, briny wind all hours, Snufkin wonders.

They are both silent while the sea roars to itself far below their feet.

“Like what?” Snufkin finally says, because he’s usually the one who loves silences most, but this silence is sharp and fraught and pointed directly at him. He hauls his sight higher and catches Moomin’s tail writhing in the wind.

“Like that person. Keeping. Keeping you where you don’t want to be.” Something wet winds through Moomin’s next inhale. “Like the sparrow-woman and her husband.”

Snufkin’s fingers work at the fabric of his tunic. The bridge of his nose is beginning to prick. No, he wants to say. No, of course not. But he’s not completely sure, and suddenly he realizes that this, this moment right here, is swiftly climbing his list of frightening moments and he’s going to watch it overcome the story he just told, and it will keep going, driving through him like an arrow and out of feeling. There’s a sparrow inside his ribcage screeching and fluttering.

Snufkin has been silent too long. He finally hauls his gaze to Moomin’s face, and he finds fear there, too. Different kind. Deep and blue and silent, waiting for the final blow.

Moomin moves first. Swipes his forearm across his eyes. “Never mind,” he says. “Don’t know why I said that.” He starts walking again, steps carefully past Snufkin, and continues up the trail. Snufkin pivots to watch him, lips coming apart. He has no words ready, though. He rarely does.

Snufkin follows in Moomin’s steps for another several minutes, his mind blank. When they follow the path’s sharp turn back into the cliff-side forest, Moomin abruptly spins around.

“I wouldn’t, though,” he says hotly. His eyes are bright. “I wouldn’t make you—I wouldn’t _keep_ you anywhere. I wouldn’t even know how. I—you’re _you_. No one could ever _keep_ you anywhere you don’t want to be. It’s why I love you.”

“You could,” Snufkin blurts. “If you asked, you could keep me anywhere.”

It’s like a whale breaking the murky surface of his own thoughts. Colossal and devastating. Snufkin didn’t even realize that truth lived inside him until this moment. But, of course, it must have been there for years. As long as the hard, heavy ache beneath his sternum. Snufkin grips the straps of his pack so hard the tips of his fingers burn, and he’s about to cry. He never meant to hand Moomin that knowledge; he never meant to give Moomin the ability to hurt him. It’s terrible knowledge to both give and receive. Snufkin never meant to do that.

“No, I couldn’t,” Moomin says, but he sounds dazed. Snufkin stares at him, and the wetness wells up in Moomin’s eyes again. “I couldn’t—”

Moomin closes the distance between them in three steps. He half lifts his arms and then stops short of actually touching Snufkin. His hands just hover. They offer. The sight almost makes Snufkin fold in half. And he remembers—he remembers. This is Moomin. His Moomintroll.

Snufkin inhales ragged, wetly, and finally places his red, chapped hand in Moomin’s soft white one. Moomin’s fingers flutter once then, slowly, close over the back of Snufkin’s hand. He’s gentle. And they’ve done this enough times, they’ve held hands all through their childhood, but this moment feels too heavy and important to explain. They stand together in the shadow of it, watching their hands twine together in a jumble of skin and fur.

Snufkin pulls himself forward into Moomin’s shoulder. Moomin makes a small sound of surprise, but he accepts him and wraps his other arm around Snufkin’s shoulders. Moomin has grown in the last year; he’s just tall enough that he can almost tuck Snufkin under his chin, and Snufkin burrows there, pressing his face into Moomin’s neck. The dusty, warm smell threatens to overwhelm him, and his entire body is pulsing, and Snufkin feels unbearably exposed, like parts of himself that usually remain in the cool, comfortable dimness of his own head have been dragged into the sunlight where they should not be. It’s painful; it’s awful. But, Snufkin thinks as he inhales the stinging sea wind, there’s something magnificent about it too.

Snufkin tucks himself tighter against Moomin and feels the ache beneath his sternum dissolve into something new and incomprehensible.

* * *

They barely speak the entire way back to Moominhouse, save for when they walk shoulder to shoulder and their hands brush and their fingers latch to one another for a few steps, which is its own kind of speaking. When they do reach Moominhouse, the sun is already taking its leave. They stand together on the far side of the bridge; the orange-rose light of the setting sun paints everything livid gold. Moomin shifts from foot to foot and peers at Snufkin with wide eyes.

“Well I—” Moomin stops. He rubs at his snout and looks off aimlessly to the left. “I um.”

Snufkin is so very tired, but he offers both his hands, palms up. Moomin slowly takes them, grasping them in a loose hold. He rubs his right thumb mindlessly along Snufkin’s knuckles and watches Snufkin, waiting.

“I think,” Snufkin says after a long span of time, “I need to reflect on things.”

“Me too,” Moomin says. He sways a little and squeezes Snufkin’s hands. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

A smile steals across Snufkin’s face. “You will,” he says. He leans forward and lets his forehead rest lightly on Moomin’s shoulder. Moomin turns his head slightly so his snout presses warm along Snufkin’s neck and shoulder. They stand together like that for several long, rolling breathes. The sunlight is sharp and bright in its dying, and it ripples over the pair of them, drenching them in warmth. When Snufkin lifts his head from Moomin’s shoulder, it drenches his eyes, too, forcing him to narrow his gaze, see everything through the blur of his eyelashes. Moomin steps back; Snufkin releases his hands. Moomin gives a small wave as he turns and crosses the bridge. Snufkin forgets to wave back, swaying in place as he watches Moomin take the small path to Moominhouse, burred with gold and surrounded by sun-caught particles.

* * *

Snufkin pitches his tent in a small field a few minutes from Moominhouse. He sleeps deeply that night, and when he wakes, the sun is already well into the sky. He keeps breakfast simple, eating the rest of the hiking food Moominmama had sent with them. He doesn’t fish and he doesn’t play his mouth organ and he doesn’t even smoke. He sits cross-legged in the tall grass, a few paces from his tent, and watches the comings and goings of the little field. Grasshoppers and soft, white moths move past him, intent on some unknown, buggy destination. A few field mice come across him and, after a few cursory sniffs, leave him be.

Around midday, Little My finds him.

“What on earth are you staring at?” she demands, standing a few paces from Snufkin’s knee.

“Not much,” Snufkin says. “Hello, Little My.”

Little My eyes him distrustfully. “Oh splendid. You’re acting weird too,” she says. She places her hands on her hips. “Did you and Moomintroll have a fight after the rest of us left?”

“Oh,” Snufkin startles. Then, “No, we didn’t.”

“Well something happened,” Little My says. “You should see Moomin right now. Sitting on the porch and staring at nothing at all, just like you.”

Snufkin doesn’t know what to say to that. Finally, he says, “Maybe it’s because Moomin and I had a bit of a scare the night before last.”

That makes Little My perk up. “What sort of scare?” she demands.

“A strange noise in the woods,” Snufkin says. He tilts his head. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Little My stares blankly at him, and Snufkin knows right then that Little My truly did go home with Snorkmaiden and Sniff. She would be smirking and preening otherwise.

“Why would I know something about that?” Little My asks. “What did it sound like?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Snufkin says. “Maybe a tiger.”

“Maybe a lost, ghostly sparrow-woman,” Little My says.

Snufkin pauses. “Maybe that,” he says.

* * *

Snufkin goes to the Moominhouse at dusk. The butter-yellow lights of the kitchen windows already glow through the tree line. An evening breeze has picked up, shuffling through the leaves and carrying maybe, possibly, the first hint of an impression of autumn.

Snufkin can see a soft white shape on the porch. It straightens when Snufkin nears, then hurries down the path toward him. Snufkin takes a seat on the bridge, and a few moments later, Moomin joins him.

“Hi,” Moomin says, sounding a bit breathless.

“Hello.”

From the Moominhouse comes the faint sound of music. One of Moominmama’s records, no doubt. It plays something slow and stately, like a waltz.

“Did you…reflect on things?” Moomin asks.

“I did.”

After a moment’s thought, Snufkin takes Moomin’s hand in his. He can feel Moomin relax beside him. They sit in silence for several minutes, hands clasped and steeped in the cool, algal scent of the stream.

“Crepuscular,” Snufkin says thoughtfully.

“What?” Moomin asks.

“It’s a word for…this. Twilight light. The Mymble used to call it wolf-light. Halfway between dog and wolf. Between familiar and not.”

Moomin looks into the falling dimness, examines the trees and stones swiftly fading from proper view. Then he takes Snufkin’s hand into his lap and gently pulls his fingers open. He traces the lines in Snufkin’s palm with a feathery, wandering touch.

“Crepuscular,” Moomin echoes. He grins up at Snufkin. “Only you would carry words like that around with you.”

Snufkin doesn’t answer, just watches Moomin follow the creases and details of his hand. Didn’t Snufkin once hear an old wives’ tale that you could read fortunes in a palm? Snufkin wonders what Moomin sees.

Moomin stops his wanderings of Snufkin’s hand and lets Snufkin curls his fingers back around Moomin’s thumb.

“Are you frightened?” Moomin asks.

“Very much,” Snufkin says.

“Me too,” Moomin breathes. “Terrified, even. I could ruin this so easily. I could do or say something wrong, and I’d lose you forever. I know I’m soft and a little spoiled and prone to thoughtlessness, and I could _ruin_ it.”

Snufkin kicks his feet a little, thinking. The music from Moominhouse has shifted to something softer. “Even if you make mistakes,” he says slowly, “I don’t think it would be so awful. I don’t think you’re like that youth in the pub. I don’t think this is like the story of the sparrow-woman. And I’m sorry if I made you feel like it is. I just…I get so frightened, Moomin. So often. Sometimes it makes me…drastic.”

“I know that,” Moomin says. “And you should know—” he pauses. “Snufkin. If I really can keep you anywhere I like, then I keep you on the winding roads all through winter. And I keep you here by my side for spring and summer and as far into fall as you can bear.” Moomin shifts to look at Snufkin properly. “You know that already, don’t you?”

Snufkin did. He does.

“And if…” Here Moomin swallows. “If you need to fly away for longer, Snufkin. If you need to fly away forever. That’s where I’d keep you, too. You also know that, right?” Snufkin lifts his eyes and studies Moomin’s face. Open and clear and deep as the freshwater lakes Snufkin once found many winters ago. Snufkin bites at his lip and leans forward to press his face against Moomin’s snout. The song from Moominhouse fades into silence, leaving only the stream and the wind again.

“I know,” Snufkin says. “Thank you.” He inhales the warm, dusty scent. “But Moomintroll. I’d fly back.”

He can say that with utter truth.

The stream continues to sing beneath them. The surrounding trees fade into dimness entirely. Moominmama’s golden kitchen waits for them. It will welcome them when they’re ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Tove Jansson for creating as relatable a character as Snufkin
> 
> You can find me over on tumblr as [story-monger](https://story-monger.tumblr.com/) :)


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